


strawberry lipstick state of mind

by ShowMeAHero



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, Post-IT (2017), Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “Richie,” Eddie calls, as he gets close enough for Richie to hear him. His head lifts, and he grins, shoving his glasses back up his face as he waves at Eddie with the paperback in his other hand.“Hey, Eds!” Richie shouts. He hops to his feet and dog-ears the page in his book. Eddie barely has any warning before Richie’s sprinting at him and sweeping him off his feet, spinning him around in a circle, but Richie does that every single day — Eddie doesn’t need warning anymore, it’s just a ritual.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 417





	strawberry lipstick state of mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fashpuma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fashpuma/gifts).



> A commission for [fashpuma](https://twitter.com/fashpuma)!
> 
> Title taken from ["Adore You"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3jjujdWJ72nww5eGnfs2E7?si=H2JW0O4AQgSomDoBlDfZtA) by Harry Styles.

Eddie’s last shift runs late, only because he’s a workaholic to a fault and he won’t leave the bookstore until everything is done. It stresses him out too badly to leave anything that can be done today until tomorrow, so he always leaves the place in an exactly perfect condition before he locks up and goes home for the night. Sometimes, though, there’s a whole group of rowdy preteens who move books around right before closing. Eddie doesn’t mind, because they’d just gotten excited while looking for books they’d been apparently incredibly thrilled to find, but it does mean he needs to take some extra time to resort everything before he goes.

Richie always waits for him regardless. When it’s been five minutes past when Eddie’s supposed to meet him on their regular park bench after his shift, he’ll usually shoot off a text asking if everything’s okay, and Eddie will let him know why he’s staying late, and that’s it. That’s all Richie needs. He’ll wait patiently until Eddie shows up, after that. He brings himself activities to do while he waits, and he’s always on or near the bench when Eddie gets there.

They’ve been friends since they were babies, and they’ve been together for fourteen years, since  _ they _ were fourteen years old. Even after all that time, seeing Richie in the park at the end of the work day is Eddie’s favorite part of every single day, without fail. Today is no different.

Richie’s sprawled across the bench as Eddie crosses the street from the bookstore. It’s chilly, so he’s got his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket and he’s not going fast, but it means he walks a little slower, breath puffing out around his head, and  _ that  _ means he can just observe Richie, as he gets closer.

He can see him from behind, at a sort of backwards side-angle, but most of Richie’s face is covered by the inky spill of his curly dark hair, a mess that falls over his cheeks as he bends over the paperback in his hands. His ringed hand comes up to tuck a chunk of it behind his ear; he pushes his big tortoise-shell glasses back up his nose in the same movement, fiddling absently with the small wooden plug in his ear before his hand drops back down to the page, playing with the corner.

The nip in the air has brought Richie’s sweaters out in full force, so he’s got a heavy knit cardigan over his ratty olive-green v-neck shirt, its logo long since faded, and not by Richie. There’s a tan pattern woven into the loose mud-brown fabric of the cardigan; Eddie remembers the sweater from last year, and they’re tiny roses, stitched all over the sweater. Richie tangles his fingers up in the cord of his necklace as Eddie hits the grass at the edge of the park, hopping off the sidewalk and into the cold dirt. The metal pendant drapes across the back of Richie’s hand, a small charm in the shape of a heart, a gift from Eddie when they were only fifteen, but Richie’s worn it every day ever since.

“Richie,” Eddie calls, as he gets close enough for Richie to hear him. His head lifts, and he grins, shoving his glasses back up his face as he waves at Eddie with the paperback in his other hand.

“Hey, Eds!” Richie shouts. He hops to his feet and dog-ears the page in his book. Eddie barely has any warning before Richie’s sprinting at him and sweeping him off his feet, spinning him around in a circle, but Richie does that every single day — Eddie doesn’t need warning anymore, it’s just a ritual.

When Richie puts him down, he cups Eddie’s face in his hands and kisses him hard. Eddie wraps his fingers around Richie’s wrists, feeling the leather cuffs and bracelets biting into his skin as he tightens his grip. Richie nips at his bottom lip and pulls back, grinning.

“How was work?” Richie asks. He turns around, and Eddie hops up onto his back, burying his face in Richie’s neck as he carries him back over to their bench. He drops Eddie down on his half of the bench before he scoops his book back up and props his feet up in Eddie’s lap.

“Long day,” Eddie tells him. He wraps one hand around Richie’s ankle, rubbing his thumb over his pink socks to feel his ankle bone. Reaching up, he runs his cold fingertips along the line of skin above Richie’s sock, skimming his hand up under the cuffed ends of Richie’s straight-legged pants, pushing up the brown fabric to get to his calf. Richie grins, tipping his head back and kicking lightly at Eddie’s arm with his heel. “Better now.”

“Much,” Richie agrees, tipping his head back against the arm of the bench and slouching down a little bit further.

“How’re you liking the book?” Eddie asks. Richie taps the book against his own chest and hums, smiling a bit again as he yawns.

“You know what I like,” Richie tells him. “It’s a book about the Zodiac Killer, of  _ course  _ I like it.”

“Thought so.” Eddie taps his fingernails lightly against the side of Richie’s suede Oxfords, then traces back up to his calf again, scratching his skin a little. Richie kicks at him again, then leans over the edge of the bench to drop his worn paperback and lift up his travel mug. It steams, when he pops open the top. “What’d you bring?”

“Hot ginger tea,” Richie tells him. He takes a long sip, then offers it up to Eddie, who takes the container in his hands just to feel the warmth, for a moment. The ginger steam floods his face, and he sighs.

“Thanks,” Eddie says, before he takes a long sip. Richie takes the mug back after Eddie takes four long sips of it, grinning stupidly at him. It’s only then that he finally sets the mug aside and opens his arms, and Eddie stretches out on top of him, digging his face into Richie’s chest. Richie kisses the top of his head.

“Missed you, Spaghetti,” Richie murmurs to him.

“Missed you, too,” Eddie replies quietly. “How was  _ your  _ day?”

Richie hums; Eddie feels it rumbling under his ear. The leaves have just started to change, and one orange leaf spins down to the ground next to them as Richie says, “Mine was long, too. I’m in a funk, I think.”

“Writer’s block?” Eddie asks, and Richie shrugs. When Eddie tips his head back to look up at him, Richie’s face is a little twisted up, wrinkles on his forehead, a frown on his mouth. Eddie doesn’t care to see that, so he leans up and kisses him. It takes a moment for Richie to get into it, still lost in thought.

“Do you think I’m funny?” Richie asks. Eddie lifts his head, propping his chin up on Richie’s chest to frown up at him.

“Do I think you’re  _ funny?”  _ Eddie repeats.

Richie nods, but, when Eddie opens his mouth, he says, “For real, though. I mean, seriously. Not a joke answer. If that’s okay.”

Eddie reaches up and strokes Richie’s hair back from his face, then cups his cheek in his hand, feeling the hinge of his jaw press into his palm. After a moment, running the pad of his thumb under Richie’s right eye beneath his glasses, Eddie says, “You  _ are  _ funny, Richie. It’s not a matter of what anyone thinks. You just  _ are  _ funny, it’s a fact.”

Richie studies his face, searching for something he must find, because he leans back, exhaling. Eddie keeps watching him, chin pressed to Richie’s pounding heartbeat.

“I feel like I’m fucking up more recently,” Richie tells him, his voice a little quieter than usual. He reaches up, running his hands through Eddie’s curls absently as he says, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not on the right path. Maybe I fucked up somewhere back there when we were, like, seventeen, and I— I don’t—” Richie exhales, then pauses. Eddie waits him out. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing here, Eds.”

Eddie sits up a bit, and Richie follows his lead, tucking himself into the corner of the bench with one leg drawn up. Eddie folds himself into Richie’s side, pulling his long arm over him and warming himself underneath Richie’s oversized cardigan like it’s a blanket for the two of them. Richie kisses the crown of his head; Eddie smiles, turning his face into Richie’s warm chest.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Eddie tells him. “You’re doing what’s right for  _ you,  _ Richie. What do you always say?”

“Hm?”

“Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time,” Eddie says, echoing a sentiment Richie has said pretty much every other day since he read it somewhere when they were eight years old.

“I guess,” Richie says. He reaches up, trailing his fingertips up and down Eddie’s chest over the buttons of his jacket. “Not if it fucks us over, though.”

“What, you’re going to fuck us over so I can’t live my lavish lifestyle anymore?” Eddie asks. Richie huffs a laugh. “Rich, you’re doing  _ fine.  _ You’re getting gigs, you’re making money. You write good material and you’re good at what you do. You’re funny.”

“Eh—”

“You  _ are,”  _ Eddie insists. “I know I don’t say this a lot, Richie, but I love you. So much. You mean so much to me.”

Richie leans back a little, and Eddie lifts his head, tipping it back to make eye contact with him. The look on his face is a little nervous, almost, even though they’ve been together for so long at this point, there’s so little to be nervous about. Richie kisses him on the forehead, then the cheek, murmuring, “Don’t be such a sap.”

“I  _ mean  _ it,” Eddie asserts. Richie tugs him back in and kisses him all over the top of his head, down his forehead and across the freckles sprinkled across his cheeks. It tickles, almost, and turns him on a little bit, too. Eddie wriggles, and Richie grins down at him like he knows exactly why.

“Thank you,” Richie says softly in return. “I love you, too, Eds. You know that.”

“I do,” Eddie tells him. “It’s nice to hear, though.”

“I have a hard time being serious sometimes,” Richie says.

“Could’ve fucking fooled me.”

“Okay, alright, I get it,” Richie says, laughing, starting to sit up again, but Eddie shoves him back down and smiles right in his face. Richie grins back at him, then tugs him in for a kiss. Eddie lifts himself up, climbing over Richie’s lap before he settles in, sliding his hands up under the hem of Richie’s t-shirt, running his cold hands over the hairy skin of his belly, and Richie jumps, laughing again.  _ “Fuck,  _ you’re cold.”

“It’s fall,” Eddie reminds him. “I have bad circulation.”

“Remind me to get your gloves off the top shelf in the hall closet, pipsqueak,” Richie says. Eddie smacks him lightly on the chest, then kisses him again, gripping Richie’s waist in his hands. He doesn’t intend to go beyond lightly making out with him, but even that’s enough. Eddie dips into his mouth, licks between his teeth; Richie groans, low in his throat.

“Can we go home?” Eddie asks. Richie grins, pulling back and gathering his things up into his bag. Eddie straightens his jacket and stands, hopping up onto the bench so he can hoist himself onto Richie’s back again, Richie’s bag slung across his chest, dangling off them both.

“Eds, I thought you’d never ask,” Richie says as he hauls Eddie away from the bench. Their little house isn’t a far walk away, and Richie always says he likes the exercise of carrying Eddie. Eddie’s pretty sure he just likes the routine of doing something for Eddie since he’s done since they were little boys, when he’d carry Eddie home from grade school on his back, tired from his long days.

At home, if everything goes according to the schedule they’ve set for themselves over so many years together, Richie will already have dinner ready for them. He’s much better at cooking than Eddie’s ever been, and he loves making home-cooked meals as much as Eddie loves not having to make home-cooked meals, so he’s responsible for cooking and Eddie’s responsible for washing the dishes after. Then they’ll pick one of their shows to catch up on and talk about their days and, based on how Eddie’s feeling, and how he assumes Richie’s feeling, they’ll probably make out on the couch until he gets up the energy to ride Richie into the sofa cushions.

“I love you,” Eddie says, at eleven o’clock that night, after that’s exactly what’s happened. He knows, deep in his heart, that it’s exactly what’ll happen again tomorrow, too, and he couldn’t be happier about it. Richie kisses the top of his head, right before he goes to sleep.

“I love you, too,” Richie tells him, in the quiet darkness. His big hands wrap around Eddie’s to keep his cold fingers warm, and Eddie sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) come chat with me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicolelianesolo) and/or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/). I'm currently taking commissions there, as well!


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